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I’ve spotted a continuity error concerning a rogue nipple. James’ lover professes she’s so happy she “could burst” and screams a happy scream. At this stage her left nipple is exposed. Cut to a laughing James, cut back to his lover and now the left nipple is covered, but the right exposed. Someone must have had the job of nipple continuity on this picture and whoever it was dropped the ball. The curious thing is the director must have insisted on one nipple being uncovered for the scene. It’s not as though it just happened to be visible, then next shot it was covered. The nipple exposure swapped!
It could be in the actor’s contract that both nipples be given equal screen time. It’s fairly standard in the motion picture business. Nipples are highly unionised and if you show one, you’ve got to show the other. It can cause production costs to blow out, but it’s the price you pay for nipple equality.
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I was a little hasty in assuming James and his lover were nude quilt racing. The rush outside is because James has bought her a birthday present and nude-quilt-woman knows what it is! It’s a horse, which is also nude and is pulling some sort of four-wheeled trailer cart thing or something, I don’t know… It’s not important what’s attached to the horse.
The gift brings much happiness and James’ lover reflects, “I feel I finally got somewhere.” Watching this film for seventy-one minutes, I can’t say I feel the same. I guess the point is the pair are content and I’ll bet some form of dead currency like the Austro-Hungarian Gulden or the Euro, some turmoil is coming their way. And will someone please dress that horse!
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There’s a lot of nude frolicking going on. Well, James is stationery, but his lover is quite animated. There’s no copulating going on, however. They seem to be just hanging out. If you strip and invite someone to the bedroom, the presumption is that some sort of sexual activity will be taking place. Oh well, James is too full of pie to care.
His lover curiously wraps herself in the quilt and runs giddily out of the house. Of course! Nude quilt racing! The pie, the hanging out starkers; it was all pre-race preparation. I thought the barbaric sport had been outlawed worldwide since Roman times? Those poor threads…
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Actually, fuck pies. What have they ever done for me? I’ll answer my own rhetorical question – one thing. A pie saved my life once. But other than that, piss all! They’re unhealthy and filled with goodness knows what! I don’t care what’s in a pre-packaged meat pie; I’m troubled by what’s really in an apple pie. If you didn’t put the apples in yourself, be very, very cautious. I distrust apple pies. There, I said it.
Even if you mixed the apples never take your eye of the pie, especially in the oven. That’s when switches and all sorts of clandestine pie related activity can take place. You think to yourself, “Oh, the pie is in the oven, I’ll just nip upstairs and hang the painting my niece made for me,” but you’re risking your pie being gutted of its delicious apples and replaced with old tyres and pictures of pears. There should be no institution dedicated to the history, storage and exhibition of pies, particularly the apple variety!
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OK, to be clear, I’m not saying there’s nothing interesting about pies. I’m sure someone whose principal interest was pies could regale me with many, many, many captivating facts about pie manufacture, consumption and sales. For a start, there are numerous varieties of pies. You’ve got your fruit based pies such as apple, blueberry and raspberry. Then there’s pies designed to be eaten as a main meal like chicken, beef and vegetable curry. Each have individual strengths and weaknesses, which must be taken into account when marketing the pies.
Potpies vs. pies where pastry is the primary vessel for meat and/or vegetable containment is a debate that rages in the pie enthusiast community and both sides of the argument are enthrallingly thought provoking.
Pies are nutritious, fun to eat and have provided inspiration for both Don McLean and 90s teen comedies.
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No hot nookie; only hot breakfast. Disappointed? I’m not. James’ lover has baked him a pie, which he comments, “Belongs in a museum.” Are there many pie museums in the States? Aside from pies, what would you exhibit? Pie cutters? Pie baking trays? Pie charts? Famous pies? I’m sure the history of the pie would be very interesting… actually, no I’m not. Unless at visit’s end you are able to eat pies, or participate in pie baking, I do not think pies warrant an entire museum. I’m sorry. I’m not saying pies aren’t lovely; they are. I just don’t believe it’s worth anyone’s time to visit, curate, or promote such a place.
And it’s not even a case of believing there are better, or more interesting things for a museum to be dedicated to. It’s just that a pie museum is particularly daft. Pies don’t last that long. How are you going to display them? If you’re having to constantly cook and replace the pies on show, that’s not a museum; that’s a bakery.
James could be expressing a desire for the pie to be placed in a general, or non-pie specific museum, such as the Smithsonian. In which case I would be completely in favour.
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There’s a lot of kissing going on. The woman is giddy with love, her head spinning. James’ head is spinning too, but that’s because he’s drunk. There’s a growl. Is it a Wyoming tiger? No, it’s James’ stomach. He apparently hasn’t had breakfast. He’s not going to eat her, is he? What a twist it would be! Heaven’s Gate – the tale of a moral, hard drinking, cannibal cowboy. Alas no, I believe they’re about to make some hot nookie.
The air in the cabin is so dusty. Every shot of this movie is shrouded in smoke, or fog, or dust. Cimino is subverting typically idyllic western settings and I understand he’s trying to demystify the west, but how about demisting your shots so we can see the fricken film?
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More transit, more walking to places, more wagons, more walking, more walking. The message of this film is exercise; slowly and… no, just slowly. Goodness! It’s a woman! And not one just babbling in Hungarian, for a change of pace. James has casually strolled to the house of a woman! And she’s happy to see him. Woooooo. They’re like, totes hugging. I wonder what she finds attractive about James? His boozy stench? I always splash some liquor over my clothes to attract the ladies. “Is that Jonnie Walker Blue you’re wearing?”
It’s more likely to be, “Is that Col Higgin’s Bathtub Moonshine dripping down the front of your shirt?” But a man can dream. The only way I’d be getting near Jonnie Walker Blue is if someone spilled it on me. Or if I fell into a vat while on a factory tour. Or if I hang on to my whiskey soaked, tattered jeans for another twenty years and naturally age it myself. Keep walking.
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It’s revealed the gun toting spitter is jolly upset because the shorter spitter’s wife hit him on the head with a rock. He could be spitting so much because he’s drooling with concussion.
James must be the sheriff! He breaks-up the fight and listens to their grievance. He’s also drunk on the job. I hope the Office of Police Integrity, which I assume existed in the Wild West, finds out. I don’t want him to lose his job; I feel a slap on the wrist would be appropriate. But not in front of anyone. The embarrassment of a public wrist beating might drive him back to the drink. Personally, I believe police officers should be allowed to drink while they work. Drunkenness, weapons and authority are a good mix. Like a fine cake that strangles you.
Sigh. The film cuts away from the horrors of the cockfight to a lovely shot of a country road. This film is so pretty sometimes. Though, the shot is littered with wagons, which as we’ve already established, are for idiots.
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Stop spitting; it’s gross. Thank you. It’s not often that films listen to me when I demand things of them. But gobbing is a way of spreading TB and the people of Johnson County have enough problems. And you don’t want to be known as the land stealing, tuberculosis spreading guy. No one likes that guy. It’s the 1890s and though the bacteria that causes the disease has been identified, milk pasteurisation has not been invented and infected milk as a cause of TB is doubted. So you can’t even use cows as a scapegoat… That sounds oddly… odd. Ahem. You can, however, blame John Hurt, who remains the number one cause of the illness.
He is spitting again! Fine, whatever; infect everyone. You’re the reason, boater-hat-man, ‘no spitting’ signs will be put up around Flinders Street Station in your future. I hope you read the signs and think, “I should learn more about milk pasteurisation.”